


somewhere only we know

by sagexbrush



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Comfort, F/M, Fun, Healing, Post Season Six, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-08-20 07:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8240447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagexbrush/pseuds/sagexbrush
Summary: When Lydia Martin knocks on your door and says you're going on a road trip, one does not simply say no to her. Besides, Stiles has always been a sucker for road trips. And Lydia....(or a road trip healing fic set after season six)





	1. unexpected

 

            She watches Stiles change like she watches TV, all at once and in regular intervals. She watches as he breaks up with Malia, as he distances himself from Scott and his Father, as the cracks in his skin widen and as he disappears further into himself – until graduation, long after the ghost riders departed from this godforsaken town, he only gives her a half smile in the hallways and doesn’t show up at lunch or at any of their annual ‘pack meetings’.

            It’s almost like this time he’s intentionally trying to let them forget about him.

            Nobody else seems to notice, or maybe they just decide _not_ to, switch off the TV – give up on the friend that never gave up on them.

            Lydia Martin however didn’t give up on people.

            Maybe old, false Lydia would have, but people like Allison have taught her that you never know when you’ll lose someone.

            She doesn’t need to lose Stiles.

            So she begins to formulate a plan, slowly and carefully, like solving a math equation.

            Y = Stiles’ happiness.

            Now all she has to do is solve for x.

 

**i**

**_unexpected: not expected or regarded as likely to happen_ **

****

****

Lydia Martin knocks on his door at precisely eight o’clock in the morning, two cups of foaming Starbucks in her hands and about ten bags scattered around her feet like leaves.

            He blinks several times, his hand still on the door and his face inexplicably confused – what the hell is _Lydia Martin_ doing here for? (A nervous nibbling begins in his stomach, tearing at his nerves like sharp serrated teeth.)

            “Good morning!” she says briskly, pressing one of the coffee cups into his hands, and then stepping past him into his house like she owned the place, and he looks down at her bags, one eyebrow raised.

            “Do you want to – “

            “We can leave them there,” she waves an absent hand in the air carelessly. “It shouldn’t take long, and besides – someone has to be _really_ stupid to steal from the Sheriff’s doorstep.”

            He lets the door fall shut and takes an experimental sip of his coffee, it’s exactly how he likes it – a caramel Frappuccino with extra whipped cream, and he wonders how _Lydia Martin_ of all people knows what his favorite kind of coffee is. (Especially because around other people he always ordered _black_ coffee. Disgusting, but also manly as fuck.)

            “What is this about?” he asks her, mindful of the fact that he has dark shadows under his eyes and is wearing his pajamas that he’s been wearing since yesterday morning.

            “You and I are taking a trip,” she declares, turning to face him with a smile on her face, and a swish of her hair, before turning back and marching determinedly up the stairs to his bedroom.

            He gives himself a few moments to comprehend what she’s just told him, before he’s scrambling frantically up the stairs after her.

            “What do you mean?”

            “We’re going on a road trip,” she says in that way that only Lydia can really truly _do_ , the tone that suggests that she’s being adorable, sarcastic, and serious all at once.

            “Ex –excuse me?”

            “I already asked your Dad,” she says, humming slightly as she crosses into his bedroom, ignoring the tangled mess of sheets on his bed (from another sleepless night) and instead heading to his closet, wrinkling her nose at the messy assembly of shirts within. “He said we could go, not that he could really stop you anyways because we’re both eighteen but – “

            “Wait – hold up,” he says quickly, holding up his hands like he’s hoping to stall her somehow. "What are you going about?”

            She begins to flip through his closet, her back to him, but he watches her shoulder blades stiffen at his question.

            “You and me,” she says directly and precisely, “are going to take a road trip.”

            “And why’s that?” he asks, as she takes several shirts from his hangers and throws them onto his desk.

            “Because we deserve it,” is all she says, but somehow that’s enough of an answer for him.

            “Okay,” he agrees amicably enough, when Lydia Martin knocks on your door and says you’re going on a road trip, one does not simply say not to her. Besides, Stiles has always been a sucker for road trips.

            And Lydia.

            She looks back at him, raising an eyebrow, “ _Okay_ , that’s it?”

            “You’re not going to exactly let me say no, are you?” he thinks this is the part where he should have smiled, and she would have smiled back, but the muscles in his face feel tight, and he just moves to sit on his tangled mess of a bed as she continues to flick shirts and other pairs of pants onto his desk.

            “Don’t worry,” she finally says, like it’s the only thing she can possibly think to say, “I have the money for the trip.”

            “How?”

            “My Dad always promised to take me on a backpacking trip around Europe,” Lydia shrugs, “I decided I didn’t need it.”

            “You didn’t need a trip to Europe?”

            “Would I be here if I did?”

            “Seriously? All the fancy pasta? The cute little towns that belong on a postcard? The _shopping_?”

            She ignores this, waving away his comments with a, “Where’s a bag?”

            “On the top shelf – and Lydia, you can’t be serious about this.”

            She’s on her tiptoes, fingers reaching for his bag, but whirls at his comment, the look on her face so deadly it could probably kill cats or something.

            “Stiles Stilinski,” she begins, sounding more like his mother than his friend, “You are coming on this road trip with me, and I want no more excuses. You are not going to be a pathetic excuse for a boy any longer.”

            He winces at her comment, but she’s already turned around again and doesn’t notice it.

            This is breaking every single one of the rules he’s painted on the inside of his mind in bright red paint, _don_ _’t let anyone see you, don_ _’t talk to your friends, stay away, you_ _’re not good enough for them Stiles –_ and that’s just from her being in his room.

            “You can’t force me to go anywhere.”

            She slams his bag onto his desk and turns around, her hands on her hips. She starts off annoyed, forceful determination stretching her face, and yet all the sudden she softens, like the effort is slowly draining out of her.

            “Stiles,” she sighs, his name like a sin coming from her lips, “You think nobody notices, but I do, so we’re going.”

            He can feel her comment starting to scratch the surface at the anxiety pooling in his stomach, and suddenly he doesn’t want to keep up this losing battle – he can’t anymore, he can’t let her get in too close, like she’s threatening to do, so he just nods his approval and sees a slight lightening in her eyes.

            “Alright,” she says, getting back on track, the brief slip in her emotions being covered by even more determination, “Go take a shower and put on some clean clothes, I’ll finish packing.”

            Another time, another day, he would have been more than concerned that Lydia Martin was going through his underwear drawer – but he just can’t find it in himself to care anymore.

**_***_ **

 

            She can hear the shower running as she stacks his clothes neatly in the suitcase, and thinks about how this was too easy.

            The old Stiles, the Stiles he used to be, would have made a thousand more jokes and probably wouldn’t have agreed her with in that way of defeat he had – he would have agreed with some sarcastic comment and a flippant wave of his hands.

            It stiffens her in her resolve to see this through, that Stiles wasn’t Stiles anymore and she needed to get him back to at least a _shadow_ of his former self – even if it was just a weak smile in her direction.

 

**_***_ **

****

            He emerges from the shower to find Lydia standing with a duffle bag of his in her hands, her eyes oddly shadowed.

            He can feel the anxiety constricting around his chest like a vice as he realizes that this is actually happening, that he’s leaving the safe confines of his house for something other than school or aimless drives to nowhere in his Jeep, that he’s going to be next to _Lydia Martin_ for extended periods of time.

            Despite the anxiety however, he doesn’t have enough effort left inside in him to say no. He doesn’t want to fight her, because he’s sick of fighting. All of his fighting spirit has left him in a sick, slow, flow, and now he feels like an empty shell, weak and alone.

            “You ready?” she asks, hands on her hips and a firm, unmoving look on her face. It almost seems like she expects him to bail right now, at the last moment, even now that he’s dressed and showered.

            “Yeah,” he mumbles, and she tosses him his duffle bag, and marches out of his room, still tough and defensive like she’s expecting him to back out at any second.

            He follows her like a scolded dog, his eyes studying the tips of his sneakers.

 

**_***_ **

****

            He's automatically surprised when she asks for the keys to his Jeep.

            "We're taking... Roscoe?" he asks, blinking several times. She gives him an exaggerated roll of her eyes.

            "No, I was asking for the keys so I could take it to the car wash," she says, and then sticks out her tongue.

            He tosses her the keys.

            She unlocks the trunk and begins to heave her stuff into the backseat and the compartments. She's brought at least ten bags, and he wonders just _why_ she needs that much stuff. He isn't even sure if he brought -

            "I have everything except for your clothes," she says in explanation, "before you judge me on my bags. I have snacks, razors, toothpaste and toothbrushes, water - you name it."

            "Did Lydia Martin actually go to a normal supply shop for all of this?" he pretends disbelief, and it the joking atmosphere stretches out the anxiety in his stomach. It angrily prods at him in retaliation, scratching his insides and twisting his stomach.

            "I know how to _shop_ Stiles."

            He tosses his duffle bag atop her mountain, and is equally surprised when she hops right in the driver’s seat, both hands firmly placed on the steering wheel.

            "Are you - driving?" he asks uncertainly. He has always been the one that drives; because he was the only one who didn't have focuses elsewhere. He was the driver, and the comic relief, until suddenly he wasn't either one anymore.

            "We'll take turns," she says, "plus, if you think I'm going to let you pick the music for the first couple hours, you're dead wrong."

            He lets this wash over him for a couple moments, and then tosses her the Jeep keys and climbs in the passenger seat.

            "Good," she says, but he thinks it's mostly to herself, because she looks rather sad when she says it, and doesn't look at him.

            She turns the keys in the ignition and attempts to start the car, her fingers fumbling around the controls like she's in a rocket ship - not a car.

            "Let me show you," he's saying before he can stop himself (his brain chanting _she doesn't want your help, you're useless, useless, useless_ at him all the while) and shows her how to properly start it and tells her to stomp down hard on the accelerator to get it started at first.

            She pulls out a little Bluetooth speaker after that, and starts playing some soft soothing music that makes him feel like he's sitting on a chair made of nails, and he's a glass boy.

            He wonders how long it will take for him to completely shatter.


	2. unexpected (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the kind feedback!

"So," she asks, tapping the steering wheel. The Jeep has taken some getting used to, but now that she had the hang of it, it glided beneath her fingertips easily. "North or south?"

            He peers over at her, evidentially confused. "What?"

            "South has Disneyland, and North has - " she considered, "rain."

            "You don't know where we're going?"

            "Where's the fun in something if you know exactly what's going to happen?" she teases, because she doesn't really want him to know that she'd just barely decided this last week.

            She watches the sunlight dance in his eyes as he considers, watches the muscles in his jaw flex and as his hands twitch towards his head, like he's trying to block out something.

            "North," he finally decides, but it almost sounds like he's appeasing some demon inside him.

            She turns the car anyways, wondering if he felt like she did. That the bright happy colors of the south didn't fit them anymore. They belonged in the dark now.

            They belonged in the rain.

 

**_***_ **

            His phone buzzes. It's a text from his Dad. _Have fun :)._ He wonders who taught his Dad to use emojis.

            He kept meaning to, but he hadn't had time. It had slipped through his mind like most of the normal things teenagers do had, simply because there had been no point in attempting to keep up a normal pace of things any longer.

            He shuts off his phone and drops it into the cup holder next to him. Lydia glances at it for a moment before she returns her eyes to the road.

            "Is it just us?" he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

            "Yeah," she says, worrying at her bottom lip, "do you want to invite someone else?"

            "No," he answers quickly, "just us."

            She nods, and fiddles with the dial on the station, turning it down instead of up, her eyes flickering to meet his as she turns on the turn signal.

            "There's supposed to be a good burger joint in this place," she says, pulling into a small, dusty looking Californian town.

            "Burgers?" his stomach rumbles, he's had coffee for breakfast, and nothing else remains in his stomach but the ever-growing anxiety monster, gnawing at his ribcage and lungs.

            "Burgers," Lydia certifies, even though in all reality Lydia Martin should not be eating burgers. She should be trying to lose weight or something, not packing away carbs. "And then you can drive."

            Some of the anxiety in his stomach drains away, they've been sitting here with nothing to say, and his hands had been aching for something to do, for some kind of desperate relief - a _distraction_.

            She pulls into the parking lot of a worn down looking diner, and barely managed to park the Jeep before she was pushing open the door and leapt from the seat, stretching out her thighs and back muscles as she stretched.

            It's only when he hits the ground and his legs wobble does he realize that they've been driving longer than he originally assumed, and every part of his frame aches.

            He looks over at Lydia, her hair breezing slightly in the wind as she contemplates something with a concentrated expression, and then turns to him with an almost smile.

            "Do you want to see the Redwoods today?" she asks, gesturing for him to follow her into the diner.

            "The Redwoods?" he repeats, instantly confused.

            "The big trees?" she specifies, and he remembers a quiet camping trip with his parents when he was little, and the overwhelming quiet of a large space.

            "Sure," he says, because he doesn't want to go against Lydia, because this is her money and her plan, and he isn't even sure why he's apart of it in the first place.

            "And then we'll find someplace to stay," she says, but again, it seems to be mostly to herself.

            They cross into the diner, the air smelling like grilling burgers and the floors the shiny squeaky kind. Lydia smiles politely at the waitress as she takes a seat at the large bar (Stiles uneasily sitting next to her) accepting the waitress with an easy smile.

            When she moves, he sees the scar just above her ear, before she tucks her hair back in front of it, almost automatically, like it's a habit she's long perfected.

            He realizes he's supposed to be looking at his menu and quickly glances down, his fingers tapping against the edge of the plastic. He decides to get whatever Lydia's getting.

            "What looks good?" Lydia asks then, easily thwarting his plans. He looks for a random thing.

            "The - the - uh - the - what looks good to _you_?"

            Her eyes crinkle at the corners like she wants to laugh, but she bites her lip, and points to a burger on the menu.

            "Oh yeah - me too!" he says quickly, and this time she really does laugh, the surprised laugh Lydia has, like she hadn't expected to laugh but had.

            "Are ya'll ready to order?" asks the waitress, popping her gum loudly, taking out an old pad of paper and looking at them expectantly.

            He lets Lydia order for him, only adding a coffee onto the end of her order.

            It’s easier than making his own choice, because there were so many burgers and so little time.

***

            Stiles takes the drivers seat automatically, and she notices how the Jeep seems to fit him more than it does her, like a worn out glove that's shaped to it's owner's hand.

            "You pick the music," she says, and he picks up his phone and plugs it into her speaker, and then hands it to her.

            "I don't care," he says, "pick anything on there."

            She's always (a secret wish that she had barely admitted to herself) wanted to know what kind of music Stiles listened to. It was often a time in class that he got his phone and headphones taken away for listening to music, or she'd see him bending over his Jeep with the white ear buds swinging from his ears, one time she had even caught him _dancing_.

            She swipes through the music selection, and chokes back a laugh.

            "Are you judging my music taste Martin?" Stiles demands.

            "Do you seriously have Hannah Montana on here?" she asks, laughing as she clicks on the first song and _'The Best of Both Worlds'_ rings through the car.

            "NO!" Stiles says loudly, and as he hits the main road, he makes a swing for his phone and misses. "Scott downloaded that as a joke!"

            She giggles again, clicking on another song, "And... Ooh, Justin Timberlake?"

            "I swear to god," he says, but somehow the atmosphere feels lighter, "look at the playlists."

            Still snorting slightly with laughter, she clicks on the little playlist button, pulling up his music.

            "Wow," she says, scrolling down, "your playlist names are so creative."

            "Shut up," he says, a tint of flush staining his cheeks.

            "Why are they labeled - day one? Day two?"

            "Because - because - oh I don't know," he says, rolling his eyes, "I mean, what am I supposed to name them? Torments of my soul?"

            She feels like, in this moment, they are both trying to be something they had lost long ago, yet somehow, it doesn't feel wrong - more like a too tight shirt that somehow fit you well in all the right places.

            _"wish we could turn back time, to the good old days - "_ the speaker sings, and Lydia's fingers tighten when she checks the song title: Stressed Out by Twenty One Pilots.

            Stiles shoots a half glance at her, and she feels a sharp prod of pain emanate from above her ear, and the pretense of pretending fades away into silence.

 

**_***_ **

Beacon Hills was a mere six hour drive from the Redwoods, so they arrive there around mid-afternoon, and Stiles is starting to wonder if it was a bad idea to come on this trip anyways.

            The trees are bigger than nearly anything he can see, and they stretch dark shadows across the Jeep's interior, painting Lydia in shades of gray, and he thinks that anything could be hiding behind these vast, silent beings.

            "There's a hiking trail up there," Lydia says, tapping him on the arm and pointing forward. A cluster of cars is inlaid on the inside of the road, and Stiles nods, even though the thought of getting out of the car has no appeal to him. The forest is too dark; too bold, too - _uncertain_.

            He pulls into the parking spot anyways, because he can't think of something witty to say, and instead his hands tap out a nervous rhythm as he unbuckles his seatbelt.

            When he gets out of the car and slams shut the door, he sneaks a glance at Lydia when she doesn't know he's looking at her.

            Her neck is craned upwards, her eyes scanning the faraway treetops, an expression of closed wonderment sprawling across her features. He supposes it's hard to be amazed by something when you've practically seen it all.

            She turns to look at him then, and almost looks startled to find that he's looking at her. She covers it up quickly however, with a bright smile that somehow seems like the false saturated light from a lamp.

            She reaches into one of the bags she'd brought, and he notices (and okay he wasn't the _most_ observant person ever) that she had brought a cooler, and she pops out two water bottles and tosses one to him.

            "You ready?"

            "As ready as I'll ever be," he replies, which he thinks is kind of true. Kind of true for everything in his life now.

            She falls into easy step next to him, her arm brushing against his, her hair tickling the bare skin on his arm. Her hair has grown longer in the months since the Dread Doctor's.

            He remembers another time when she was next to him, slumping into his arm, her hair wet and clumped together, her clothes dirty, - _save someone's life._

            He wonders if in the end, he really saved Lydia. Or had she saved herself?

           

**_***_ **

            The silence of the Redwood forest is definite and overwhelmingly quiet, and if she's being perfectly honest - it terrifies her.

            They march into the trail, the families behind them chittering away like squirrels, and Lydia has the overwhelming urge to take Stiles' hand and pull him after her like she would have if this was a different time. A different world. If Scott and Allison were behind them and Isaac in front, if everything was the same as it had been, those few perfect months.

            "It looks like a fairy tale," she finally decides on, everything was so _green._

            "Yeah," Stiles agrees, "it does."

            She remembers his arms around her, anchoring her to the world, but now it looks like he's the one about to float away.

            She reaches out and slips her fingers through his before she can stop herself. His hand goes slack in her's for a moment, probably alarmed by the contact, but slowly he returns the grip, tightening his fingers around her's, like he needs an anchor.

            She decides that she can be his anchor for as long as he'll allow her to.

            "So," she says, sliding her eyes over to his, "I say we check into a motel after this, and watch Star Wars on my laptop."

            "You brought Star Wars?" his eyes lighten up to such a degree that she almost feels normal again.

            "All six," she answers, "and also all eight Harry Potter's."

            "I didn't know you were such a Harry Potter nerd."

            "It's my guilty secret."

            "I thought that was something else," he says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, and she lightly rams him with her shoulder in retaliation.

            "I have different variations of guilty secrets," she debates, and likes how warm his hands feel against her's.

            "The trees are so - _big_ ," Stiles changes the topic, his neck craning upwards so he can barely skim the tops of the trees. Lydia watches him as he does so, the bones in his skin sticking out as he shifts, the moles on his face stretching as he squints, and she buries the feeling this rises in her.

            "I know," she says, "makes you feel small - huh?"

            He pulls his hand away, "Yeah," he answers quietly, "small."

 

**_***_ **

The first motel that doesn't look completely unreliable is painted a light blue, with cute little white curtains over the windows and a friendly looking atmosphere.

            "This is the part where a serial killer steals our feet," Stiles whispers in her ear, "just so you know."

            She ignores this and instead strides into the lobby like she owns the place, startling the old receptionist.

            "Hi, can I have one room please?" she asks nicely, and Stiles feels his anxiety jump in his stomach. _One room?_

            "Yes dear," the woman says, shaking the mouse to an ancient computer, "Two beds or - " she gives them a look over her glasses, "a king bed?"

            "Whatever has two beds," Lydia says quickly, but the anxiety doesn't abate. She would be so close to him, her breathing filling the room as she slept, while he _didn't_ sleep, because he was Stiles and Stiles didn't sleep - not anymore.

            Lydia doesn’t seem to realize that however, and she accepts the key the old woman gives her with a friendly looking smile.

            “You ready?” she asks, tugging lightly on his arm and pulling him out into the parking lot.

            He doesn’t know how to answer that question, so just follows her to a little door that has the number 7A on front in black ink.

            Contrary to what he was expecting, the little room is actually quite nice. It’s got two tiny beds with blue sheets, and old paintings of the redwoods line the walls. Plus, no suspicious hairs in the bathroom.

            He claims the bed closest to the small window, the Jeep visible through the gap in the curtains, a little sliver of home in an unfamiliar place.

            Lydia has claimed the shower, and he hears it hissing to life in the tiny bathroom.

            The question of what he is doing here, in this moment, in this _place_ \- floats to the surface as Lydia leaves him alone for the first time all day.

            It had seemed like an easy offer to accept this morning, a thing to pass the time. Now, he’s realizing that he is _alone_ on a _road trip_ with _Lydia Martin._ A feat that had seemed impossible only three years ago.

            That Stiles would have probably gasped and asked if his ten year plan had _really_ worked.

            Unfortunately, Stiles is pretty certain that none of his plans work.       

            Lydia asking him to go on a road trip with her was an odd occurrence, he had to give it that – an outlier in their data set.

            He considers pointing this out to Lydia, knowing that while she’d probably be affronted at the comment, she’d also _love_ the math behind it, but instead he bites his tongue.

            Maybe he’ll tell her when she gets out of the shower.

            Maybe.

            (Probably not.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my tumblr is sagexbrush  
> feel free to come and yell at me there


	3. ocean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops

**ocean: a very large expanse of sea, in particular, each of the main areas into which the sea is divided geographically.**

            She wakes up to an empty bed across the room from her, the sheets crumpled together in a mass that resembles the tangled mess of Stiles’ bed at home, and she can’t help but wonder when the last time he got a full night of sleep was.

            They had both eaten take out and watched the fourth episode of Star Wars last night, but everything was rather quiet.

            She had heard him tossing and turning before she fell asleep herself.

            The motel door bangs open and the faint sounds of Stiles swearing fills the room before he steps in, two steaming cups of coffee in his hands.

            “I brought you some coffee,” he says when he sees she’s awake. “They only have black coffee because it’s just the free complementary coffee but I took about fifty sugar packets so _hopefully_ we can make it into a dignified flavor.”

            “I like black coffee.”

            “Then you have no taste buds,” Stiles passes her one of the cups and sets his own on the night table, before beginning the task of laboriously ripping open sugar packets to dump them in his coffee.

            “Maybe my taste buds are just stronger.”

            “Stronger is just another word for weaker Lydia.”

            “Actually – no – no it really isn’t,” she says, taking a long sip of her coffee. Stiles looks like he wants to say something back but instead sticks out his tongue.

            “Where are we headed today?” he asks, and while it seems like today might be a good day, his hands are tapping nervously on his over-sugared coffee cup.

            “Wherever you want,” she answers, and Stiles sits down at the end of her bed, his tapping moving from his cup to the sheets.

            “You really don’t have a plan?”

            “Nope.”

            “That’s not very Lydia like of you,” she’d think he was teasing if his fingers suddenly didn’t go very still.

            “Maybe I wanted to do something that wasn’t very Lydia like for a change,” she answers instead.

 

***

 

 

            They get bagels and more coffee, and Lydia decides to start out the day driving, because she’s heard about this cute little Oregon town and she wants to go.

            Stiles buys an atlas from a supermarket and a pack of highlighters and draws a line from Beacon Hills to the town just outside the Redwoods.

            “To track our progress,” he says, waving her questions away and instead scribbling in little details about the previous day.

            She thinks that today is a good day for both of them, but she can’t quite be sure anymore.

 

***

 

            The ocean comes into their view about an hour into their drive, a strip of blue that never ends. Lydia pulls over the Jeep at the first turn off she sees, and practically yanks Stiles out of the Jeep after her.

            He stumbles a little on the sand, the cold wind pushing back their hair. They’ve both been to beaches before, they did live in _California_ , but those beaches were warm and filled to the brim with people. This beach was cold, and they were alone.

            Stiles takes a few hesitant steps towards the water but then abruptly stops, his face unreadable in the sunlight.

            She wants to take his hand and drag him into the water, to laugh until their bellies ached – like they might have done in another time, another _life_ \- where the memories of being forgotten are nonexistent and Allison and Scott are there smiling and laughing.

            So instead she just moves up next to him, and they stare at the waves together, her thoughts getting lost on the wind.

 

***

 

            Stiles insists on driving the rest of the way, and Lydia sets up the GPS on her phone to give them directions as they leave the main highway and travel onto other, more small, roads.

            She picks the music again, and it swells through the car, filling the empty silences with lyrics about people that seem far away. She wants to reach out and grab Stiles hand from where it rests on the steering wheel, like they had that night in his Jeep – before everything went wrong.

            It’s the memory of him getting ripped away from her that keeps her hands firmly in her lap.

            She hadn’t been able to hold on to him then, and she’s scared that if she tries to hold on too tight now, he’ll slip away.

            “What’s this town called again?” he asks, and it’s the first word they’ve spoken in hours.

            “New port,” she says.

            He nods absently. “What is there to do there?”

            “Well,” she considers the map. “There’s Whale watching.”

            Something akin to childish delight fills his eyes. “ _Whale_ watching?”

            “Whale watching,” she confirms. “If you’re into sitting on a boat with a hundred other people, looking for something that probably won’t even show up.”

            Yet he seems sold on the idea. “Call whoever and make this happen,” he almost _commands_. She wonders what about the whales intrigues him.

            She schedules it for tomorrow, and the guy tells her she’s lucky because there’s only two spots open, but Lydia doesn’t count that as lucky.

            She counts Stiles’ smile as lucky, when it stretches across his face as soon as she tells him the news.

           

***

 

            They arrive in New Port around lunch time, and Lydia insists they go and find some seafood.

            “Seafood is the stuff of the devil,” Stiles says, but he doesn’t really mind. (Although, he’d rather have the burger like yesterday.)

            “We’re right next to the ocean Stiles,” Lydia says like it’s all the reasoning she needs, but Stiles doesn’t necessarily mind. Especially when she order them two bowls of clam chowder, and lets them eat it on the hood of the jeep instead of in the restaurant.

            The hood of the jeep is cold, but he doesn’t mind, and Lydia doesn’t seem to either as she spoons great quantities of her soup in her mouth. She’s almost being sloppy, which is surprising to him of course, because she’s _Lydia Martin._

            Still, he supposes she isn’t The Lydia Martin from third grade, she’s just Lydia now.

            Lydia who apparently _really_ likes clam chowder soup.

            His own is nice, but it’s not practically _snort_ worthy.

            “We’re going to have to get like a ten gallon container to go,” he observes. The anxiety in his stomach tightens furiously. _Was that the right thing to say? Was that the wrong thing to say?_

Lydia gives him The Look, the perfect melding of sarcasm and petty, and then nudges his shoulder. “Only if you pay for it.”

            “In your dreams Martin,” he says.

            It almost feels nice, with the sun casting barely there warmth onto their shoulders, his thighs going numb from the metal hood on the Jeep. It’s almost nice, and he doesn’t know how to feel about it.

            “Where are we staying tonight?” he asks the remnants of his soup.

            Lydia jerks her head in the general direction of one of those cheap rest stop inns.

            “I figured the whale watching would make up for the lack of a good hotel,” she says, finishing off her soup.

            “Sounds good,” he says, feeling all of the sudden awkward. Seriously – what was he _doing_ here? He hadn’t left Beacon Hills since the ghost rider’s mess, and had been mentally preparing himself for college. A road trip with Lydia Martin, the girl he loved, _seemed_ like a good thing but - she didn’t love him back. She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. It didn’t matter.

            He shoves the rest of his soup over to her. “You can finish it,” he says. At least he’d see a whale tomorrow.

            “Why are you so excited about the whales?” Lydia asks like she can read her mind, accepting his soup.

            “What?”

            “The whale watching. I didn’t think you’d be _that_ excited about it.”

            He shrugs. “They’re the world’s largest mammal. Even if we’re not seeing a blue whale, all whales are cool. Did you know a blue whale is the largest known animal to have ever existed?” he’s rambling now, his mouth moving faster than his brain, but Lydia doesn’t seem to mind.

            “They reach about 98 feet in length and 180 metric tons in weight,” she muses. “I know.”

            He doubts there’s very much that he knows that Lydia Martin does _not_ know.

            It’s not an answer really, and they both know that, but to him it’s enough of a reason for now. He’s sure if he pokes at it enough, some other answer will surface. But _not_ now.

            “Let’s go to the beach,” he decides. He’s not really sure why. Before, he had freaked out. Before, he had slipped beneath into a darker part of himself.

            He knows today’s a better day when Lydia smiles at him, the sunlight illuminating her strawberry blonde hair – and the anxiety in his stomach decides to abate for just a moment longer.

           

           

           

           

           

           

           

           


End file.
